


The Worst-Laid Plans

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Valentine's Day hasn't held much appeal for Hank ever since it became first the stress-filled anniversary of his proposal to his first wife and, after, a reminder of what's gone wrong. Connor changes that.





	The Worst-Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LouRandom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouRandom/gifts).



> for the hankcon vday exchange; my recipient was lourandom! sorry, i was hoping to get it up while it was still vday where you are but i couldn't get it finished in time....hopefully you still enjoy it though! just some sweet sweet vday fluff
> 
> cws are few but for safety's sake: some briefly mentioned arguments leading to past divorce (with hank's ex-wife), cole's death is briefly mentioned also, a lot of self-hate from hank, some brief innuendo

Hank and his ex-wife's anniversary had been on Valentine's Day, and it had fucking sucked.

He had thought it was romantic, at the time. Ask the girl to marry you on a day already dedicated to love, when everywhere is all heart decorations and lace cutouts and candlelight. Go to the tiny Italian restaurant where they went on their first date, even though yeah, Italian is maybe not Hank's favorite. Pull out the ring and get on one knee and say your piece surrounded by other happy couples and with the staff ready to bring out some chocolate cake after.

She'd said yes, but then she'd also said, "Hank, not to sound ungrateful or anything, but you couldn't have picked any other fucking day?"

So, well. Maybe that says something that they started out on that foot, some sort of bad tidings or whatever, but she also wasn't wrong. On Valentine's Day, you're fighting against every other couple in the fucking city for reservations, and then you're fighting with your wife because no I definitely called them in time, can't we just do it a couple days later when—no, Hank, this is our _anniversary,_  we got _engaged,_  you _chose this_ —I chose the commercialization of Valentine's Day, Laura? That's what I chose? It's not my fucking _fault,_  we can still have a nice night in and then find somewhere on Saturday—God, it's always the easy road with you, isn't it Hank—

Anyway. It's not like it was just Valentine's. They didn't work together long-term, is all, and they were falling apart long before Cole, but Cole was the final piece that shattered things. Neither of them were surprised when Laura brought up divorce. Neither of them were surprised when Hank signed. It just, you know. Didn't work. Sometimes things don't, and it isn't like that's the holiday's fault, but it maybe still leaves a sour taste behind.

What does work though, so much so it scares him when he thinks too long about it or gets a bit too drunk, is Connor. Connor always seems to just...work. From offering him a place in his home after the revolution and the way he just slotted seamlessly into his life to the friendship that only grows stronger and better every day, he just works. 

So, you know, it's not too surprising either that Hank falls for him. Hank knows he's predictable. Old washed-out alcoholic with a tragic backstory, boo-hoo, falls in love with the bright young kid with the whole world ahead of him. If it weren't his dumbfuck life it'd sound like Oscar bait. But it is his dumbfuck life, and he's the dumbfuck living it, and that means he's been waffling for months on whether he should let on. 'Cause on one hand, maybe he loses the most important friendship he's ever had, maybe he leaves Connor not knowing what to do or where they stand, or maybe, _maybe_  even Connor feels the same (there's been a glance or many that could be just a shade too long, pauses fraught with tension between them—)

So yeah, maybe that, but then Connor's still stuck with Hank. And Hank knows that'd be his choice, has thought in some of those moments with his walls down a bit too far that Connor would probably remind Hank that he's an adult and can make choices and can choose for himself who to love and—and yeah, Hank knows that. He does. But fact stands that Hank isn't really the stuff of the happy endings you see in movies. He's still got a shitload of issues, even if they surface less often these days. He's still old and fat and, you know, kind of an asshole. Connor ending up with him, that's one of those Oscar bait movies that people say is _important_  and _thought-provoking_  and what they really mean is it was boring and unrealistic but like, ooh, storytelling, desaturated colors, I drink espresso and shit silver spoons to stir it. He's getting off track. Point is, Connor deserves better. 

But on the other hand, the hand that's sentimental and biased and dumb, sometimes being around Connor makes his heart rise so far up his throat he feels like he's choking on it and the only way to fix it is to just say _I love you, I love you and I can't even be sorry for that like I should, and you don't have to love me back but can you please let me have just this because I don't think I can stop._  It seems like it's always buzzing in him, centered in his chest and vibrating out to his fingers sometimes, welling up and threatening to spill over. Saying something feels like it would at least take the edge off, at least maybe make it feel a little less painful. So even through all the doubt, all the bullshit, he still thinks about saying it. He still tries to rationalize and pretend it could turn out all right. Selfish, maybe. Probably. That's just par for the course though.

By the time Valentine's Day swings around, the subject is on his mind often enough that it almost distracts him from the holiday. Not quite, 'cause God knows capitalism won't miss any opportunity to shove it in his face, but almost. The day itself is normal enough—he wakes up, gets down some breakfast so Connor won't give him the specific look that means 'I've downloaded at least nineteen ebooks about nutrition and I'm not afraid to use that', gets ready for work. Goes to work. There aren't really any decorations exactly—Miller has some flowers up on his desk, Collins always rotates out desk decorations seasonally so he's had knickknacks up for weeks. Chen has a sign taped to her desk that says 'if you mention Valentine's I'm punching you'. But nothing for the whole department. It's still a police office. The folks they bring in probably aren't gonna feel enriched just 'cause their holding cell is done up in heart-shaped doilies. 

Midway through the day, some delivery guy gets let in with a few boxes of donuts in hand. Also Collins; he always says the annual Valentine's donuts are really for him, but it's not like anybody buys that. Hank peeks at Connor and then, sighing, only takes one donut. The way he lights up almost makes the lost donut and the way Collins grins at him worth it. God, he's so fucking whipped and they're not even together. Whatever.

Reed comes sauntering past the desk at some point a while later with a napkin with a donut and a mouth full of half of another. He swallows noisily before saying, "So, Lieutenant, bet you're over the moon you don't have to shell out for an escort this year, huh?"

Hank doesn't want to let Reed get to him, but he clenches his fists under his desk anyway. Reed pisses him the hell off and he knows it, too. 

"What's the plastic got planned for you? He gonna—" 

Hank growls, and he's about to do something probably unwise if Reed starts listing examples, but before he can get to it Connor interrupts calmly.

"Detective Reed, please, if you want to be invited to our plans so badly you could really just ask. Politely." He smiles, just as calm, while Reed goes beet red and sputters.

"The fuck, I don't—I wasn't—fuck you both! I mean. Not—ugh." With that, he walks away, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie, still red. Hank thinks he might be the same shade.

"Our plans?" Hank finally ekes out, probably too strangled to sound normal.

Connor grins at him, eyes going all crinkly and warm, dimples on full display. That smile could stop his heart, he sometimes thinks. "I figured we could watch a movie."

And at that, Hank laughs too, heart aching but also so impossibly full, and he thinks, _I'm lying to myself thinking I can keep myself quiet anyway, when he's like this._ "Holy shit, Con. Thank God for you."

It's not an I-love-you, not in those words, but the rest of the work day he thinks some more and more still. And. Well, it terrifies him, but at the same time, he doesn't know what business he has fighting against an inevitability. He'll tell him when it hits midnight. 'Cause, well, Valentine's. 

The day continues.

When it's time for them to head home from work, they head out together like they always do, drive home together like they always do. Hank knows if there's any change in the atmosphere, it's just because he's trying not to think about his decision long enough to back out. Maybe things are a bit more quiet, a bit stilted, but hey, that's Connor too. He seems subdued. Maybe just distracted. Hank can't blame him for it, though, seeing as how he's the same.

They get home and Hank gets started on dinner for himself—he doesn't cook all the time, or anything, but sometimes—and plates it up to sit next to Connor while they debate about movies to watch. Connor might not have seen as many movies as Hank, but he's still an opinionated fucker.

"Look, I know they suck, everybody knows they suck," Hank is saying, waving his fork around, "But you can't hold out on the Star Wars prologues _forever,_  Connor."

"I can do whatever I want, Hank," Connor says primly. "The reviews—"

"The reviews say they're shitty, I know, but just for _story_  purposes—"

"I could just as easily read a synopsis," Connor says, eyes glinting in a way that says he's probably joking. "It would be faster. I would feel less pain. I would—" His grin grows. "I wouldn't have to—Jar Jar—"

"You little heathen," Hank says disbelievingly, pointing at him with the fork. No heat behind it, though. "You little _shit._  You read the synopses already, didn't you." 

"The scripts," Connor says, and now his lower lip is curling, and _that_  means he's trying not to laugh and more than likely about to fail. "I wasn't terribly impressed."

Hank scrunches up his nose and slouches back against the couch, crossing his arms then making a disgusted noise upon remembering that he still has the fork in his hand and that now the sad, cold piece of chicken that had been clinging onto its tines for dear life is now on his lap. He deposits both fork and sad chicken onto the plate on the coffee table, grumbling, "Here I am trying to give you an education and this is what I get, huh? No gratitude in this house. Why do I even bother."

Connor is giggling when he says, "Oh, please, you love me," but he's not giggling when he finishes, his face instead going blank with horror.

Hank stares at him, wide-eyed, and says nothing. It might be a bad response. It's also the only one he can give, because his brain is just looping Oh Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit and nothing else.

"I mean," Connor begins, small-voiced, still looking haunted. "I mean—not that—I mean—"

And God, this isn't what he had been trying not to imagine. He had wanted...something soft, maybe, both of them fresh off a marathon in the dark and starting to get drowsy, underneath the same blanket that Connor always pulls up before Hank can even complain about being cold. He hadn't wanted this, Connor looking like he knows he said something wrong and now Hank might bolt.

But whatever. Fortune favors the brave or something. Go fight win. 

"You're not wrong," Hank croaks out, closing his eyes tight to shield against whatever Connor's reaction is. "You're...not wrong. That I love you."

He had kind of hoped saying it would be a relief, a weight off his chest, but instead the silence just presses down on him and makes the weight even heavier. He closes his eyes still tighter—

"Oh, damn it," Connor says, voice still shaky, but when Hank's eyes fly open to see what the hell that could mean, he has a wobbly smile on and tears in the corner of his eyes. "You got there first."

Hank blinks. "Huh?"

"You'd said you disliked Valentine's Day so I thought—I had planned—" He shakes his head, a tight little movement, and reaches out to touch Hank's shoulder all careful and light, then hard, a firm grip like he's trying to keep him from leaving. "Hank. I love you. I love you too."

Hank, who's never been an eloquent man and sure as fuck isn't gonna start bein' one now, repeats, "Huh?"

Connor squeezes that shoulder, exhaling, then swings over so that he's straddling Hank's lap, gazing at him intensely. 

(Hank's mind, ever helpful, provides another 'huh' for good measure.)

"I love you, Hank. I was going to tell you that as soon as it hit midnight. I've been wanting to tell you, but...I wasn't sure..." Another shake of his head, ducked down against his chest, and when he raises it to look at Hank he's smiling properly now. "But you do? You—feel the same?"

"Um," Hank says, and wonders briefly if he's just monosyllabic now. "I—Connor—Con—of _course._  Of course, how could I not—but—"

He has all of his objections lined up. That he respects Connor's agency and right to choose but that he thinks he could do better. That he can't promise if they go through with this he won't hurt him. That the thought of hurting him makes all the love that fills his chest turn to ice and he doesn't know if he can bear that.

Connor does right the fuck away with all of 'em, because he's beaming and then pressing in to kiss Hank, inexperienced but perfect, and the last two brain cells Hank had to rub together pack up and leave for greener pastures. All he can do is press back, move hands to Connor's hips, smooth up his back, to the back of his head to bring him closer. _Fuck it,_  he thinks through the haze of Connor's lips against his and his hair in Hank's hands and the feel of his skin when Hank brings one thumb to the small of his back where the shirt has ridden up. _Fuck it all._

Maybe it's possible for something to feel this right and still be bad somehow, but if it is, he doesn't give a single flying fuck right now.

Hank pulls back to breathe, panting with his forehead against Connor's shoulder, rubbing now with both thumbs against the strip of Connor's skin. Connor inhales, on the edge of too sharp, and maybe moves his hips just the slightest bit forward. God. God, he was wrong, _those_  were his last brain cells and they're in his dick now.

Or something. Whatever. He can't be expected to make coherent analogies with Connor right here on top of him like this.

"I'm sorry," Connor says breathlessly.

"Why the hell are you sorry for that?" Hank asks, kissing distractedly at Connor's neck, the place where his pulse would be if their internal anatomy was the same.

"Well. I mean." Connor sounds pretty distracted himself. "It's Valentine's Day. If we date—do you want to be dating?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely," Hank says without a shred of doubt left in his vacated brain.

Connor pulls him up from his neck into another kiss, smiling all the while, eyes sparkling and crinkly again like Hank loves. God, he loves him. This doesn't even feel real right now, like maybe he fell asleep after watching movies after all, but he's still riding that fuck-it energy as far as it'll take him. Hank chases after his lips when he parts, and Connor's exhale is almost a laugh. "Anyway—we're dating as of today—" Hank kisses the corners of his smile, which widens. "And that means our anniversary—"

 _Anniversary._  What a nice word, all of a sudden. He starts grinning himself and presses that against Connor's cheek, his nose, his mouth again and again and again after. "I don't give a shit, Connor, I really don't. Not what day it is, not—not anything. Just..." He can't find the words he wants right now, but he drops another, smaller kiss on Connor's nose, looking at his warm brown eyes. "Just you. That's what I care about. It's just you."

Connor blinks rapidly, then melts into Hank's lap, pressing their foreheads together. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

And even if it's Valentine's Day, even if they'll still have to talk later when Hank is thinking past Connor, even if he can't predict all that happens next—it is. It really is. Okay, he means. And he thinks they will be too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! thanks to the vday exchange mods for setting all this up! if you wanna catch up with me elsewhere, i'm primarily on twitter at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs) and also on tumblr at [anuninterestingperson](http://anuninterestingperson.tumblr.com)!


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